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had told her, looking across the pool of light, as across a
distance, at that almost unfamiliar face, " something to move
toward, to hope for. Some direction."

She had shaken her head, saying: "We can't know any-
thing, now. We can't do anything. Not anything." Then,
in the silence, for he had made no reply, still with his eyes
fixed on her face across the pool of light, she had said, very
quietly and distantly: "I don't feel anything any more.
Not anything."

That night he had slept at the Christian place. He had
expected her to come to him. He had watched the door,
waiting for the latch to lift stealthily. But it had not moved.
He had stood just inside the door, leaning forward with his
brow pressed against the slick, cold surface of the painted
wood, filled with his angry and despairing desire. Eventually,
standing there, he had become aware of a repeated, almost
imperceptible sound, a hoarse, dry susurrus, painful and
regular. It had seemed to come from beyond the wall to his
right. Then, he had identified the sound: it was the sound
Mr. Christian made.

At the end of the next week Mr. Munn again went out to
the Christian place. That night Lucille Christian came to
his room. At the door she stood in the accustomed posture,
closing it, with her finger lifted as before. And even at-that
instant, the gesture, now so ironical and superfluous in the
new context, told him more positively than her words had
been able to tell him how empty she was, and how arbitrary
and automatic and meaningless her actions. But denying
that knowledge, he felt for a moment that she was as she had
been. But it was only for a moment. She lay in his arms
shuddering as though from cold. It was as though the half-
playful shivering of those times when she had said, chatter-
ingly, "Warm my feet, I'll catch pneumonia all for you,"
had been a kind of parody, fatuous and grim, of this, the
truth.

He tried to comfort her. He told her that he loved her and
would love her always. Finally, she succumbed to him.